


ropery

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Episode Related, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 01:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10888842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: Sam steps toward Max with his hands raised out in front of him. His eyes are very wide. “Max,” he says. “Stop. Put the knife down.”





	ropery

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the question "What would have happened if Sam and Dean hadn't left Max alone at the end of 12x20?"
> 
> This is not a fix-it fic. Please direct all complaints to [themegalosaurus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus), who encouraged me to write this and then convinced me I should post it, even though I had my doubts.
> 
>  **Warning for vague but potentially triggering sexual content**. See the end notes for more detail.

He’s standing over Alicia with the ring and the knife when the doorknob rattles and the door swings wide. Sam and Dean crowd through the doorway into the bedroom.

Sam says, “Don’t.”

Alicia is so pale and cold on the bed and Max feels the overwhelming need to put himself in front of her, block her from view. The husk of twigs and rope is left unguarded behind him.

Dean’s hand goes to his belt, where he keeps his gun. Max is still holding the knife.

Sam grabs his brother’s arm. “No.”

He steps toward Max with his hands raised out in front of him. His eyes are very wide. “Max,” he says. “Stop. Put the knife down.”

The blade is held out in front of Max’s body, clasped between fingers gone bloodless-grey. He relaxes his hand and the knife clatters to the ground. His hand stays half-raised in the air, wavering. Alicia’s blood is in the creases of the knuckles.

Sam says his name again. “Listen to me.” He takes another step closer. “It wouldn’t be her. This isn’t what she’d want.”

“You have no idea what she’d want,” Max says, hears his own voice like an echo.

“We can help you,” Sam says. The creases on his forehead make him look older than he is. “You have to stop. Give me the ring.”

Max can feel it, pressing hard into the ridges of his palm where he’s clutching it tight enough to hurt. He looks down, opens his hand. The light of its magic pulsates softly, glowing purple, warm in his hand.

Sam says, “Please.”

He’s close enough to touch. Dean’s hand is still hovering at his belt. They aren’t going to let him leave the room, not with her.

Sam extends his hand. Max reaches out, tips his palm. The ring rolls off Max’s hand, into Sam’s. Without his power to guide it, the light goes cold and dark, flat. Sam folds his fingers around it, withdraws his hand.

“Okay,” Max says. “I’ll burn her. Just give me another minute.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Of course.”

Then they’re gone and Max is alone again. The knife is on the floor at his feet, serrated edge gleaming. On the bed, Alicia lies cold and still.

+

The house burns fast, old boards and furniture thick with dust, and dry kindling. The cellar is different, earth-damp and chilled. The knees of Max’s jeans are still wet from kneeling on the cement floor, bent over with little noises he couldn’t muffle stuttering out of his throat.

Hovering at the dark entrance, Sam says, “Do you need to?”

The stench is still unbelievable. Max shakes his head, turns away. “Just burn it.”

After, smelling of smoke, Dean says, “I think you should come with us.”

His voice is hard. It’s not a request.

Max slows involuntarily as he approaches the Jeep. Alicia’s car. All her things still inside. Max has the keys. He’d stolen them earlier. She’d been angry, and he had never given them back.

“Want me to drive?” Sam says, soft, coming to a stop beside him. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Stop talking,” Max says.

Sam does. Max opens the driver’s side door, slides in behind the wheel. There’s space enough for a few breaths before the passenger door opens and Sam climbs inside, struggles to fit his long legs comfortably in the footwell. Max starts the engine, follows Dean’s tail lights away from the burning house with the only pieces of his sister he has left.

They ride together in silence. Sam falls asleep at some point during the drive. He’s not sure when it happens, but at one point Max looks over and Sam’s head is tipped against the window and his lips are parted. He remembers thinking earlier that Sam looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Now he’s breathing deep and even and his hands are relaxed, resting in his lap. Open. Vulnerable.

Sam’s coat has a lot of pockets, but Max only needs one word.

Then Dean’s hazard lights go on in front of him and he’s pulling over onto the shoulder. The bright flashing light hurts Max’s eyes.

Max reaches over, shakes Sam’s shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”

+

Sam and Dean are arguing on the side of the road. Or maybe it’s just that all their conversations carry that thread of exhausting, endless desperation. Max stays in the Jeep, with his hands on the wheel, facing forward, out onto the dark road.

“Sam,” Dean says, for the fifth time. “She’s not answering my calls. She’s in trouble.”

Sam says, “I know,” exasperated and drawn-out. “But we shouldn’t panic until we know what’s going on. We need to stay on Kelly and Cas. We need to keep an eye on Max.”

“So we bring him with us!”

Sam casts a sidelong glance at Max through the passenger window, lowers his voice and says, “Dean, look at him. He’s barely functional and he’s only gonna crash harder from here. We can’t bring him into this. We’ll get him killed.”

Dean, apparently, can’t argue with that. “Okay,” he says, throwing up his hands. “Take him back to the bunker. I’ll head down and figure out what’s going on with mom.”

“I’ll only be a few hours away,” Sam says, careful like he’s expecting some sort of backlash. “Call me the second anything goes wrong. If I don’t hear anything from you, I’ll come anyway, in a day or so. Just. Be careful.”

“Always am, Sammy.”

Sam gets his bag from the trunk of their car. He and Dean clap each other briskly and wordlessly on the shoulder. Then Dean gets in his car and Sam gets back in the Jeep’s passenger seat and they ride the rest of the way into Kansas in silence while outside the sky turns slowly from inky black to pale grey.

+

It’s late morning by the time Sam directs Max onto a worn gravel road that winds its way through the wilderness for a while before coming to a stop in front of an abandoned industrial plant.

“This is it,” Sam says.

Max opens the door, gets out of the car. His hips and knees protest having been bent for so many hours. The ground feels distant, unsteady under his feet. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, follows Sam down some concrete steps to a heavy metal door.

“This is where you live,” Max says.

Sam procures a key from the inside pocket of his jacket. “It’s a long story.”

Inside, the building is just as cavernous, and their footsteps echo loudly on the polished floor. The stone walls are covered in sigils—angel warding, demon warding, protection, banishing—all overlapping and painted in a shade of red that makes Max’s head spin.

“Hey,” Sam says, close and concerned.

Max realizes he’s stopped and he’s clutching his chest with one hand. “I’m fine,” he gasps. The air down here is thin and too dry.

“Okay,” Sam says. He sounds unconvinced. “The kitchen’s through there. Help yourself to anything, all right?”

Max nods numbly. Sam leads him down a long hallway of identical numbered doors. He stops at one, leads Max into a room with a bed and a desk and blank white walls.

“Make yourself at home,” Sam says. “Washroom’s right around the corner, and my room’s just across the hall there.”

He nods again. A throbbing ache has settled between his temples.

“Do you need anything?” Sam asks, tentative.

“No.”

Sam flutters anxiously a bit, like he wants to say something else. He presses his lips together, nods and says, “I’ll leave you alone, then.”

Once he’s down the hall and out of sight, Max shuts the door. He takes his backpack over to the bed, kneels on the floor and searches through his things until he finds what he’s looking for. A sturdy wooden box with looping sigils carved into each side.

He lifts the lid. The box is velvet-lined and full of fresh ingredients, mandrake and lavender and nettle. A single belladonna flower. The fragrance is overpowering, intensifies his headache and the tightness in his chest.

He upends the box, scattering the ingredients across the floor. He sets the box on the ground, open and upright. Then he unzips his jacket, reaches for the inside pocket with unsteady fingers.

Her heart is wrapped in cloth, still warm from being held so close to his body. In his hand it feels light, too delicate. He cups it between both hands, gentle. Blood and breath suspended.

He lays it delicately in the box, cradled by soft velvet.

Then closes the lid, slides the box under the bed.

+

Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, Max whispers a finder’s incantation and discovers his magic is gone. Not even a spark of it left.

He’s breathing too fast and his heart is beating erratically under his ribs. Of course the place is warded against magic. It makes sense. Still, his hands are shaking.

He lies down on the bed, curls over on his side. He hasn’t changed out of his jacket, his boots. Closes his aching eyes and lies perfectly immobile.

Sometime later, there’s a knock on the door. Max sits up slow and says, “Come in.”

Sam is carrying a tray of grilled cheese and soup. The smell of salt and grease turns Max’s stomach.

“You need to eat.” Sam sets the tray on the desk and clears his throat. “I know you’re, uh, probably not happy with me right now. But if there’s anything you want to talk about or, uh. I’m here.”

Max keeps his eyes fixed on the wall until Sam leaves him alone again.

+

It’s nighttime when Max leaves the room. He shuffles to the washroom and back in the near-dark. The bunker is quiet, empty.

Across the hall, Sam’s bedroom door is closed. The narrow crack along the bottom is dark, unrevealing. Max tries the handle. It’s locked.

He makes his way through the hall, past all the identical doors and into the kitchen. There’s a draft coming from somewhere and it makes Max shiver. A half-full pot of coffee sits on the counter, still warm.

He finds the library next. Books are stacked to the ceiling along the walls, cloth-bound and cracking at the spines, spellbooks and lorebooks and books about botany. Alicia would have loved it here, Max thinks, then cuts the thought out immediately, seals it away. There are weapons, too, blades laid out across the shelves, gleaming dully.

He gravitates toward the spellbooks, scans the titles quickly.  _ Basic Sigils _ .  _ Sorcery and Spellcraft _ .  _ Essential Remedies _ . All basic, benign, barely even witchcraft. Max sighs, disappointed.

There’s a noise. Max startles, turns around. He’d somehow failed to notice Sam, set up at a table in the dimly-lit corner with his laptop and a stack of volumes, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

“Hello?” Sam calls out, soft. “Max?”

“Hey,” Max says, heart still beating a little too fast. He steps out where Sam can see him better. “Sorry. I was just.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, still in that gentle tone. He shifts the stack of books, gestures at the chair across from him. “C’mere. Sit down.”

Max does. Then, before Sam has a chance to ask him why he’s wandering around in the middle of the night, he says, “Heard anything from Dean?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nah. He texted a few hours ago to let me know he got into Wichita. Said he was gonna catch a few hours’ sleep and then track her down.”

“And what’s all this?” Max gestures at the papers and books scattered on the table.

“Research,” Sam says. “We’re trying to track someone down—a friend—but, uh. Well. It’s complicated.”

Max studies the paper closest to him. It’s covered in glyphs, in a language Max doesn’t recognize. Looking at it hurts his eyes a little.

Sam is still looking at him. He says, “How are you holding up?”

Max blinks a few times, hard, to clear his vision. “What will you do with it?”

A crease appears between Sam’s eyebrows, drawing them together. “Do with what?”

Max looks back down, at the page with the glyphs.

After a few moments, Sam says, “Oh,” quiet. “I don’t know yet. We can decide together, once you’re, uh. When you’ve had some time.”

Max feels himself nod, distantly. There’s a muffled buzzing in his ears. The headache is coming back.

+

Sometime in the early morning, Max hears the door to Sam’s room open and then close. He wonders if the guy’s sleep schedule is always this messed up or if it’s a recent thing. He should offer to make Sam a tea that’ll help him sleep. Mom taught him dozens of recipes, before —

He waits an hour, then leaves his room quietly. His socks don’t make any noise on the stone floors. The same draft from earlier cuts through his thin t-shirt and sweats, raising goosebumps on his arms.

He follows the cold air to a staircase and descends to a long narrow hallway. It’s much colder down here than upstairs. All the lights are off. Some of the doors lining the hall are marked with a six-pointed star, not a symbol Max is familiar with. An insignia, maybe. Other doors are unmarked, or painted with sigils in red ink.

Max tries one of the unmarked doors, is surprised to find it unlocked. He fumbles for a lightswitch and a single bare bulb ignites in the centre of the room, illuminating stacks of spare furniture and cardboard boxes.

The next room he tries is full of books, organized neatly on rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves. These books are different from the ones upstairs. These are leather-bound and heavy, some of them penned on animal skins and hundreds of years old. The confined space is alive with the weight of their power, moving around and through him. It hums just under his skin, breathing like a living thing.

Max shudders. Back in the hall with the room sealed off behind him, he makes a mental note of its location.

There are more rooms with books, and an armory, and several rooms filled with massive old computers covered in a thick layer of dust.

Then he finds another room lined with bookshelves, but some of the shelves are full of curse boxes, sealed with locks and sigils. The largest is as big as a steamer trunk. Several of the boxes are small enough to contain trinkets, or jewelry.

Footsteps moving quick in the hallway and then Sam’s rounding the corner through the doorway, holding his gun out in front of him. He looks sleep-dishevelled and a bit wild-eyed and he’s wearing nothing but loose sleep pants and a cotton tee.

Max says, “Uh.”

Sam drops the gun to his side, sags back against the doorway and lets out a sharp breath. “Shit,” he says. “Sorry. You tripped an alarm. I thought. Sorry.”

Max doesn’t know exactly what Sam thought, but now that he looks closely he can see the little sigils etched into the top of the wooden doorway.

“No, it’s my fault,” he says, stepping closer to Sam. “I needed a walk but I knew you wouldn’t like if I left. I just wanted some air.”

“Oh,” Sam says. Now that the panic is gone, he looks confused. “So you came down here?”

“Yeah,” Max says. He’s shivering from the cold and the adrenaline. He’s close enough to touch Sam now. “I wasn’t really thinking. I’m not sure I was totally awake when I came down here.”

“Okay,” Sam says. His hands are fluttering again, like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure he’s allowed. “Hey, it’s okay. But.”

Whatever he was planning to say is stifled when Max leans up and presses his lips to Sam’s.

Sam makes a startled noise. His hands come up to steady on Max’s shoulders. He holds there stiffly for a moment, then pushes Max gently away.

“What,” he says, still sleep-slow. “I don’t. I shouldn’t.”

“Please,” Max whispers. “Sam. Let me have one good thing.”

He presses forward again. For a long few seconds he thinks maybe he’s got it all wrong—misjudged the months of casual flirting over text or the way Sam’s face had fallen last night when he’d mentioned getting the bartender’s number. How Sam is always looking at him when he thinks Max can’t see, soft and fond.

Then Sam melts forward into Max, kisses him back. He parts his lips and sighs. His breath is a bit sour but his lips are soft, warm. His chest is broad and firm under Max’s palms and his hands rest on Max’s shoulders, solid but not pressing. For the first time since he knelt on the floor of that cellar, Max feels a little warmth.

Eventually Sam pulls away. “That’s enough,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the curve of Max’s shoulder. “We should go back upstairs.”

Max nods. “Yeah. Sorry.”

He steps back.

+

Back in his room, Max drops to his hands and knees. He feels around under the bed for the box. Pulls it out. Checks the sigils, and the seals. Runs his hands around all the edges checking for imperfections until he’s got splinters in his fingers and he’s smearing blood over the stained wood.

Doesn’t open it.

+

Sam’s in his room and the door is open. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, turning something over in his hands.

Max says, “Hey.”

Sam startles a bit. His hands clench tight around the thing he’s holding, guilty. “Hey.”

Max smiles at him. “Come on. I’ll make breakfast.”

Sam smiles back, soft and open. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Just give me a minute.”

“Sure,” Max says.

He goes to the kitchen and turns the coffee pot on. Then he grabs a frying pan, gets eggs and cheese and ham from the fridge. He heats oil on the gas stove, finds a bowl and cracks the eggs into it, one after the other.

When Sam comes into the kitchen, Max is flipping the first omelette, laying out slices of ham and sprinkling cheese in the centre.

“Smells good,” Sam says.

“Coffee?” Max gestures to the steaming pot.

“Thanks.” Sam steps forward, next to Max, to help himself to the coffee. From the pallor of his cheeks, the lines of exhaustion on his forehead and the deep purple shadows around his eyes, Max can tell it won’t do him much good.

He shuffles the omelette onto a plate, sets it in front of Sam and then sits across from him.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Sam asks, concerned.

“In a minute,” Max says. He watches Sam cut a piece of omelette with his fork, lift it to his mouth.

Sam closes his eyes. “Mm. That’s good.”

“I know you’re trying to help me,” Max says. “And I’ve just been acting crazy. I’m sorry.”

Sam sets his fork down. “Max,” he says. “Believe it or not, I’ve been where you are. I know what it feels like. Like the world just ended but no one else has noticed it.”

“I just.” Max’s voice breaks. He clenches his hands into fists on the tabletop. “I don’t know what to do except — I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Sam’s hand twitches, like he wants to reach out and take Max’s. “Yeah. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but it does get easier. With time. And you’re allowed to take as much of that as you need.”

“Yeah,” Max says. “I know.” Then he reaches across the table, touches Sam’s hand. “Thank you.”

Sam looks surprised, but he curls his fingers around Max’s anyway. “Of course.”

+

Sam goes back to his room to sleep. Max washes the dishes and throws out the unused food and then walks down the hall to his room. Light is flooding out from under Sam’s door.

Max sits in the chair at the old wooden desk and breathes. His mouth is dry. He can’t remember the last time he slept. He doesn’t go near the bed or the dark space underneath.

He pulls his backpack into his lap, catalogues his things. Clothes. A few gemstones. A small silver dagger. A length of rope.

He goes to the washroom. Takes a shower, quick and efficient and cold enough to make his teeth clatter under the spray. Stands at the sink and brushes his teeth.

Then he walks to Sam’s room, knocks. Despite the light still streaming from under the door, there’s no response. He tries the handle. It’s unlocked.

Sam was clearly asleep, but he’s already rolling over and rubbing at his eyes when Max enters. The room is almost as plain as Max’s, bare walls and sparse decoration. A bit odd, considering Sam told Max he’s lived here for four years now. The only evidence this is Sam’s room are the books piled on the desk and nightstand.

“Max?” Sam says, sleep-hazy.

“Sorry,” Max hovers at the room’s entrance. “Sorry. I.”

Sam frowns. “You’re shaking. C’mere.”

Max goes. He sits on the edge of Sam’s bed with his bare feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees.

Sam sits, crouches up and settles a tentative hand on Max’s back, rubs back and forth soothing and slow. He doesn’t seem inclined to say anything.

After a while, Max turns and kisses him, cups Sam’s face in his hands and presses toward him. Sam hesitates a little but then kisses back, smooths his hands down Max’s back from the base of his skull to the dip of his spine.

Max gets his hands up under the hem of Sam’s shirt. Sam’s stomach muscles tense and jump at the same time he makes a surprised little noise and exclaims, “Cold!”

“Sorry,” Max murmurs, and Sam shakes his head dismissively, kisses Max some more.

When Max moves his hands lower, to the waistband of Sam’s sweatpants, Sam pulls back.

“Wait,” he says. “Maybe this isn’t the best idea right now.” Then: “Are you sure?”

Max laughs, a hollow dry sound even in his own ears. “It’s the only thing I’m sure about.”

Sam lets Max pull his pants down, lets Max press him back down to the bed and climb over top of him and kiss him and kiss him. Sam starts to roll his hips a little. He’s hard, pressing into Max’s hip, still angled awkwardly in his boxers.

Max gets his hand under the waistband of Sam’s shorts, takes Sam in his hand. That earns him a sharp exhale of air, the tightening of fingers on his arm.

Max jerks him off slow and easy, picking up the pace a bit near the end. It takes a while. Sam is mostly quiet. When he gets really close, his eyebrows draw together and he clutches at Max almost desperately, shoulders and waist and hips. He closes his eyes when he comes, stutters out a little  _ oh _ , tenses and then relaxes all at once.

Max grabs a tissue from the side table, cleans them up as best he can. Then Sam’s fumbling at Max’s waistband and Max is shushing him and pushing his hands away. “Later,” he whispers.

Sam sighs but doesn’t protest. He looks close to sleep. “Y’okay?”

“Yeah,” Max says. “I will be.”

He sits next to Sam for a while, combs fingers through his hair until Sam’s breathing goes deep and slow.

Quiet, he leans over to the bedside table, eases the drawer open. A few books, some paper, assorted pencils. Some little orange bottles with pills in them. He closes the drawer.

Then he climbs into the bed. It’s too narrow for both of them. The mattress is thin.

Sam turns toward him, mumbling sleepily, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Shh,” Max says. He eases an arm under Sam, between his head and the pillow. Feels it there, in the pillowcase, pressing into his forearm through the layer of foam. “Sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should apologize for how dark this is. Sorry! If you don't despise me after all that, I'd love your input via comments and kudos. Also you should come say hi to me on tumblr [@withthedemonblood](http://withthedemonblood.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **Warning:** Max has sex with Sam in order to manipulate him. Although both partners are consenting, this is not a happy or healthy situation for either of them to be in. Skip the last scene until the final few paragraphs to avoid that part of the fic.


End file.
